


Breaking the Ice

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Caradhras, Cuddles, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), M/M, No Smut, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orson Scott Card is a homophobic bastard, but he gives good epigram.  Here's one of his that's perfect to sum up this little vignette:</p><p>"One whose heart has crusted up like a waterbucket on a winter's night.... If you chip the ice it'll freeze up again right away, but if you take it inside, it'll warm up fresh as you please."  --Seventh Son</p><p>I'm afraid this wound up being innocent cuddly G.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking the Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [2000GigolasFics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2000GigolasFics) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> Gimli is suffering miserably from the cold on Caradhras. Legolas goes to his bedroll to warm him. 
> 
> This can be any rating you want, from innocent-cuddly-G to peel-Aragorn's-eyeballs-with-smut-E.

Gimli is cold. The snows have fallen steadily and the hobbits receive the most benefit of the fire, curled so close around it their bedding might ignite. The men have curled behind them, sheltering them further, and Gimli does not grudge them the warmth. But as he sits a little back, and tries not to shiver, he longs for the dawn—and for the warm dark of Moria, and the warmer greeting of his kin.

He draws his bedding around himself, taking care that he can still feel his toes when he flexes them. If they grow numb that is a warning that must not be ignored. 

Gandalf and the elf seem untroubled; the old wizard sits smoking, shielding the bowl of his pipe as well as he can under the brim of his hat. Legolas stands atop a drift, humming, gazing into the whirling snow as if it is nothing more than a spatter of warm summer rain. 

Gimli harrumphs at him, scowling a little. Nothing troubles the eldar, it seems, not even bitter chill. Perhaps Legolas would notice if he were set afire!

The elf turns, not bothering to draw his cloak around himself, and surveys the Fellowship, smiling a little at the halflings and their guardians. Then his eyes turn to Gimli, marking how he sits in the lee of a stone, huddled into himself, shivering. 

He steps over and picks his blanket roll from its place on the pony’s saddle and approaches Gimli. Gimli hastily begins to plan his protest, composing phrases that are not excessively impolite, yet are sharp enough they will send the elf and his blankets away when he offers them. But Legolas does not speak. Instead, he unbundles the tidy roll and puts the blankets about his shoulders, then settles himself by Gimli and enfolds him in his arms, simply curling the two of them into a single untidy heap. 

It is immediately an improvement; the wind cannot penetrate so many blankets easily, and the elf’s body is warm against Gimli’s side. Legolas turns his face outward, unblinking, but Gimli can tell he has settled for the night. Half-unwilling, he moves his arm and slides it about the elf's waist. Legolas tucks himself closer, a small smile curving his lips.

Gimli swallows hard, touched and uncomfortable in equal measures. 

He has never been so close to one of the firstborn. It is not something that happens to dwarves. Gimli scowls, defenses firmly in place, but it seems they are not needed. The elf is still; soon his eyes go faintly distant, and Gimli realizes after a few minutes that he is asleep—or what passes for it, among immortals.

The knowledge frees him; he lets the scowl fade and studies the elf instead, marking how the light of the fire catches in his fine dark lashes along with bits of melted snow, droplets of topaz, each with its diamond speck of fire captured within. The grain of his skin is pure and perfect; something about the curve of his ear captures the eye and makes it want to extend the curve into soaring arcs and graceful, elegant lacework traceries so like the art the elves make, as if the angles of their lives are all soft and smooth and interlaced in effortless graceful perfection.

Legolas is very warm, and for a wonder, he does not feel awkward against Gimli, fitting against him with easy comfort.

Gimli nestles closer in spite of himself and sighs. He can feel himself beginning to thaw.


End file.
